


Of Ill-Advised Imprints and Rather Fetching Ewok Queens

by Lirazel



Category: Dollhouse
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 22:06:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lirazel/pseuds/Lirazel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who decided giving Topher Brink the ability to design people's personalities was a good idea again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Ill-Advised Imprints and Rather Fetching Ewok Queens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rodlox](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Rodlox).



> Written for Rodlox for Yuletide 2009. I hope you enjoy! I had a lot of fun running with the cracktastic prompt.
> 
> For those of you who aren't in the know, the idea for this fic came from an interview with Dichen Lachman. You can check it out [here](http://www.scifinow.co.uk/news/dichen-lachman-to-star-in-star-wars/).
> 
> This story is set shortly after the pilot episode of _Dollhouse_.

When he comes back into his office, inappropriate starches in hand, Sierra is on top of the pinball machine. She's crouched there, hair hanging in her eyes, waving a yardstick around like she thinks it's a spear, and she's _growling_ at Ivy, who's babbling and wringing her hands and trying to calm her.

He's so freaked that he sort of freezes and gapes, and he'd be the first to admit that that's pretty out of character. But this? _This_ definitely isn't part of the new Active's current assignment. And where the hell is Hearn?

His jaw and tongue finally figure out how to move at the same time while expelling air from his lungs. Still, the only thing he can think to say is: "Frak."

He drops his Funyuns and rushes into the room, muttering under his breath and wracking his brain to figure out what could have gone wrong (this diagnostic could take a while—with technology like this, the possibilities are endless: there was that plastic surgeon four months ago who liked the cavewoman routine—Raquel Welch's fur bikini and all—or that angry Republican news anchor that businessman wanted to punish. Or maybe there was a hiccup in the equipment and only the most primitive functions got scanned in before Sierra climbed out of the Chair, but there are _never_ hiccups in his equipment and what the _hell_?).

As soon as his brain remembers how to work, his mouth does, too. "Ivy! I leave for five minutes – _five minutes_ – and you created a she-monster who probably killed Hearn since he's AWOL and where the frak did she get a yardstick? Since when do I have a yardstick? Get her _down_ from there before she destroys something important! That pinball machine is one of a kind!"

Ivy shoots a nasty look over her shoulder, then turns back to Sierra and proceeds to ignore him. Instead of answering any of his very important questions—really, where _did_ she get a yardstick?—she continues to murmur soft words under her breath, and she's got her hand stretched out toward Sierra—or not!Sierra, to be more accurate—trying to catch the Active's wrist or pat her arm reassuringly or something equally girly and ineffective. But not!Sierra is not impressed or soothed or whatever Ivy is trying to accomplish: in a scarily-fast, almost Jedi-like movement, she whips up the yardstick and then slaps it down onto Ivy's hand with a crack.

"Ow!" Ivy yells.

"Yub, yub!" Not!Sierra shouts.

"Fraking _frell_," Topher says.

\--

_Diego at the Miami Dollhouse is like a 9th Level Douche. He turns giddy at the very thought of causing someone pain, views the Actives as guinea pigs, and has been known to overload a brain with so much information that it sort of…fizzles out. In short, he doesn't take care of his toys. He also thinks he's a genius; Topher disagrees. Sure, the guy graduated from high school at fourteen, went to MIT, and got recruited by NASA to work in some super-secret project (Topher could find out the particulars in three and a half minutes if he wanted to, but Diego's not worth it, and he's got next week's episode of _Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles_ to download and then Summer Glau to drool over) before he figured out that he could make more money working for a clandestine and illegal operation like the dollhouse...but the guy's no Peter Parker, no matter what he thinks._

_Diego also doesn't have any respect for his superiors. Who's the one who figured out a way to let the Actives being imprinted experience their profile's memories teleologically, cutting down the scanning processing record from two hours to mere seconds? Oh, yeah. That'd be _Topher_. Despite this, Diego retains a certain superior smugness that reminds Topher unpleasantly of Lex Luthor._

_He also has the annoying-as-Greedo-shooting-first habit of popping up whenever Topher's just been scolded by DeWitt or bombed on Geneforge 5: Overthrow—when he's at his most vulnerable. And like a true arch-enemy, Diego knows just how to play to his insecurities. Like now. Over the webcam. Topher keeps meaning to get around to blocking him, but he hasn't had the time lately. That doesn't mean, though, that he has to listen to every word the guy says._

_"...and this whole designing personalities from bits of pre-existing profiles is getting lame. There's no challenge in it anymore. At least not for me."_

_Topher rolls his eyes at Diego's smug ramblings and picks up his Rubik's Cube. His record is forty-seven seconds, and he gets faster with each subsequent DeWitt lecture._

_"I'm thinking something new. Something alien." Diego sounds ridiculously proud of himself, but Topher's not impressed._

_"I have aliens out the whazoo, bro," he says, snapping the last blue cubelet into place and tossing the Cube over his shoulder. He pulls open a drawer and starts flipping through all the profiles he's designed for fun since he first took on this job. "Vulcans, Klingons, Romulans, Andorians, Gamorreans, Rodians, Slitheen, Foamasi, Re'ol, Psyclos, plus the chimpanzees, gorillas, _and_ orangutans from _Planet of the Apes_—the original, not any of the sequels or the Wahlberg remake—"_

_"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Diego says. "We've all got that stuff, too." Topher doesn't need to be looking at the screen to know that Diego's waving his hand dismissively. So predictable. "I was thinking of something challenging. Something completely not-human. Something whose brain waves don't even remotely resemble a _homo sapiens_'."_

_"What? You mean like yours?"_

_"Funny, Brink. Very funny. But no. I was thinking like...an Ewok."_

_"An Ewok," Topher echoes flatly. "An Ewok's got about the brain capacity of a lower primate. Their language is a way-simplified version of Tibetan. And, sure, they've got tools and something approaching a complex societal structure, but my theory is that most of that is inherited from former civilizations on the forested moons of Endor and they wouldn't have come up with any of it by themselves. In short, they're teddy bears with the brains of baboons. How is there any challenge in that at all?"_

_"Because it's so completely nonhuman! Haven't you imagined what imprinting a dog would be like? Or a dolphin? You could design Flipper!"_

_Well, the thought _has_ crossed his mind. Immediately followed by a vivid picture of the exact angle of the arch of DeWitt's eyebrow, forty-five degrees, the angle that lets him know that he has "crossed a line, Mr. Brink." So he'd sort of pushed it to the back of his head, an idea to try some other time when he's sure he won't get caught._

_But Flipper! With the sonar and the back flips and the skimming across the water on his fins and the saving the day! Putting a human brain in there—well, it would probably cause it to fry or melt or explode or something else Diego-the-Puppetmaster is intimately familiar with. But putting Flipper's brain into a _human_? Dialing back the higher reasoning skills but playing up other areas? Wicked. Cool. And an Ewok wouldn't be all that different…._

_Still, he doesn't want Diego to think he's fallen into his clutches, so he plays it cool. "I still don't think it would be much of a challenge."_

_"Or you just can't do it."_

_Topher's always hated the kind of people who are so short-sighted as to fall for this particular brand of emotional blackmail, and he's done nothing to attempt to hide his disdain. But he _has_ considered something like this before. And it would be a real challenge, which is something he hasn't gotten in a while: you can only design so many geisha dominatrixes and nurse-companions for dying children before it gets lame. And it's not like anyone would ever find out, right?_

_Suddenly he's twitching with excitement, nervous energy, and anticipation. "Talk to you later, bro," he says, flipping off the webcam before Diego can say anything. And then he reaches for a new file._

\--

Chaos ensues, of course. There's this whole theory about it, even if that's not really Topher's area of expertise. But he knows enough to know that it means that long-term predictions are nearly impossible, and he's reached the point where he can't even begin to imagine what's going to happen next.

The Ewok Queen is still up on the pinball machine, waving around her makeshift spear threateningly and letting out piercing battle cries every few moments—they sound a hell of a lot more menacing coming from human vocal cords and not from squeaky teddy bears. Ivy's simultaneously rubbing her recently-slapped hand and trying to calm not!Sierra while defending herself against Topher's own accusations.

"What did you _do_?" he demands. "Are you completely incompetent?"

Ivy gapes at him and winces as the Ewok Queen slaps her spear against the side of the pinball machine; it makes a really satisfying _whack_. Who knew?

"What did _I_ do? I did exactly what you told me to do!"

"I don't think so, Pepper Potts. She's supposed to be Princess Jasmine for a spoiled seven-year-old's birthday party! I'm pretty sure this isn't Agraba-ian princess behavior!"

Ivy makes that face that Topher really hates: the one that manages to mix offense and hurt and frustration and betrayal all at once. She makes it a _lot_. Usually at Topher. "You told me to put the profile from the computer into the Chair. _Which. I. Did._"

Topher opens his mouth to turn this around against her, but for the moment it feels like his brain's stalled. Behind them, Sierra clambers up onto the top of the filing cabinet and hurls down a glass canister of gumballs. It goes whizzing past his head and shatters against the window, the colorful candies clattering and bouncing on the floor like marbles.

The sound jars his brain back into service, and he turns back to Ivy. "You should always double-check to make sure it's the right profile! That's _policy_!"

Now Ivy's eyes flash in perfect timing with another shriek from the Ewok Queen, and the combination, is, yeah, a little scary.

"I was _about to_, and you _told me not to bother_."

"Since when do you listen to me?"

"I get your damn juice boxes for you like I'm some sort of kindergarten teacher taking care of a five-year-old before his naptime! I _always_ listen to you!"

He really wouldn't be surprised if smoke started shooting out of her ears like in _Looney Tunes_. He's about to say something along those lines when another voice interrupts him.

"What is going on in here?"

Topher and Ivy spin around to see Hearn standing in the door looking really pissed off. Topher lets out a huge sigh of relief and hurries over to him.

"Hearn, Hearn, Hearn my man. Where ya been? We need a little Handler-handling action in here. Help me, Hearn-wan Kenobi; you're my only hope!" And then he cackles a little bit at the bad joke. Yeah, he might be loosing it. Just a little.

Hearn isn't impressed by the joke. Eh, you can't win 'em all. "What did you do to her?" Then he corrects himself. "What _is_ she?" Hearn doesn't look angry anymore, just disgusted. Which, come to think of it, is his normal expression—well, that and being smugly pleased with himself. Topher's never really liked him.

"Uh, she's…." What was the name he chose again? Simple, alliterative…Oh, yeah. "Zaza, Queen of the Ewoks." He starts laughing, but it sort of peters out when no one else joins in.

"Queen of the what?" Hearn asks, his tone more than capably communicating that this is the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard.

"Ewoks?" Ivy sounds horrified, and it's really starting to annoy Topher. "Ewoks like _Star Wars_ Ewoks? Like _Return of the Jedi_ and two painfully bad made-for-TV movies?"

"Actually, the Ewok adventure movies are endearing," Topher corrects. "True, they signal the point at which Lucas quit making movies for their own sake and decided to milk his franchise for all it's worth, and in retrospect, we probably should have recognized them as proof that the prequel trilogy would be as sucktastic as it turned out to be—foreshadowing Jar-Jar Binks, that sort of thing—but—"

"I don't care what she is, this has to stop," Hearn interrupts, starting towards the shrieking girl on top of the filing cabinet. "Sierra, would you like a treat—"

But he doesn't get the whole word out, because as soon as Zaza sees him, she picks up another canister and smashes it over his head.

Huh. So people's eyes really _do_ roll back into their heads before they pass out from a blow to the head. Interesting.

Sierra hops down off the filing cabinet and trundles over to Hearn's prone body (and she even _moves_ like an Ewok! _Take that, Diego!_) and then raises her spear in victory. And yeah, it looks scarily like Wicket in _Jedi_.

_God, I'm good._

"Oh, this is bad. Bad, bad, bad," Ivy says. "Hearn's the only one who can get her to take the treatment. We're never going to be able to get her back into the Chair."

"Or maybe we will," Topher breathes, because Zaza seems to have forgotten all about her recent defeat of Hearn and has discovered the Chair.

Zaza tilts her head to the side and makes a curious sound as she studies the Chair. She toddles closer to it, pokes it a few times with her spear, chirping out a few words now and then as she wanders around it.

Ivy opens her mouth to say something, but Topher waves his hand. "Sssh! Let's see what she does!" he whispers, trying to keep his voice as low as possible so as not to disturb Zaza's investigations.

As the Ewok Queen leans forward to sniff at the Chair, Topher holds his breath. Maybe? Maybe even though Hearn didn't finish the word "treatment," he still said enough of it to coax her into the Chair? Maybe she'll climb in of her own accord?

Topher's biting his lip and his fingers are twitching against an invisible keyboard as he watches her climb up on top of the Chair. She turns, standing on it, and just as he thinks she's about to sit down…

She lets out another tremendous "**_YUB, YUB!_**" and starts to tear at the Chair.

"What the—no, no! Do you know how long it took me to—Leave it alo—Oh, _woooow_." All of his protests turn into awe. Because, yeah, she's destroying the Chair. But _how_ she's doing it…

She's scooped up a paperweight from his desk and is pounding away at the Chair with it one hand like she's bashing it with a rock; with the other hand, she's ripping away leather and wires and plastic. But she holds her hands awkwardly, like she isn't used to having such dexterous digits, like she suddenly has more joints than her Ewok brain knows how to command. Yes, yes, yes! For the win! It was the physical capabilities, much more so than the cognitive processes that had been the true challenge—the brain patterns were simple; getting her much taller, longer-limbed and agile body to act like an Ewok's? Way harder. And he's _nailed_ it. This is like a reenactment of the Ewok/Rebel attack on the Imperial troops during the climax of _Jedi_. Given enough time to prepare, she could probably create those swinging log things that crushed the AT-STs.

"Are you _seeing_ this? Look at the way she moves—the sounds she makes—it's all so _perfect_, isn't it?"

But there's no one to agree. Hearn's still out cold, lying on the floor, and Ivy's disappeared.

But Topher really doesn't care because watching this new creation of his is just too fascinating. He smiles benevolently (okay, it's probably closer to self-satisfied than benevolent, but go with it, okay?) as he watches her rip out all the wiring in the Chair's interface while that weird undulating noise in the back of her throat.

The smile is phased out faster than Mark Hamill at Shakespeare auditions, though, when Zaza turns her attention toward his computers.

Finally jarred out of his awestruck glee at seeing his handiwork in action, he starts towards her, determined this time to stop her. "Hey, let's stop with the destroying of expensive, groundbreaking technological innovation, okay?"

But she just _growls_ at him, teeth bared, and he backs away, hands held high. "Okay, okay. Continue with the smashing and bashing."

Still it wasn't a total loss, since she goes back to the Chair again. She rips off an armrest and hurls it in his general direction. He ducks out of the way and it slams against the wall. "Hey! Personal space here!" He gestures furiously, tracing the circle around his body. "You're destroying that thing, no arguments here, but no invading my comfort zone!"

She chirps curiously, then rips off the other armrest, then holds it up, cocking her head as though inviting him to examine her accomplishment.

"Yep, it's broken," he confirms. "Smashing yay…?"

And then she sends it whizzing his way, and remember that theory about chaos? He's not going to be disproving that one anytime soon.

\--

"Stop her, stop her, stop her! The Chair is one thing, but if she destroys the—oh, God!—that right there! That right there!—if she destroys it, do you have any conception of how long it will take for me to—oh, God! No!"

He rubs at the cut on his forehead frantically, feeling the blood smear around. Who knew that Zaza had that in her? The Chair is a lost cause, but as soon as she started toward his other equipment _again_, he'd of course tried—_again_\--to stop her—that terminal there? The only one of its kind in the _world_—and she hadn't taken too kindly to it. Thank all the gods of the Twelve Colonies, though, that was the exact moment that Boyd burst into the room.

And now all Topher can do is flit around ("flit" is a little too dainty a word for him to be entirely comfortable with, but there's no other word to describe it) the struggle while Boyd tries to grab Zaza. Sierra. Whatever.

"It's all right, I'm just trying to help. We're going to get you your treatment and everything will be just fine." Boyd keeps up the stream of reassuring words despite the fact that trying to hold onto a twisting and kicking and shrill-screaming Ewok Queen is kind of like trying to wrestle with a shark (Topher's kind of impressed by Boyd's ability to keep so calm even while he's struggling like this. Maybe he is the best choice to take care of Echo—if there's trouble to be had, yeah, she's gonna find it).

And then the shark comparison gets really apt, because Zaza _bites_ him.

Boyd must have some top-secret paramilitary training, though, because he doesn't even flinch, much less loosen his arms. He just keeps holding on. And looks up at Topher. "Her mouth? Please?"

Topher stares at him for a moment, then hurries over and clamps his hand over her mouth—and then winces, trying to ignore the fact that she's jabbing her tongue at it like she'll be able to break through his fingers. "What now?" he asks. "You're not going to be able to get her into the Chair when she's like this. Even if the Chair wasn't destroyed."

"I don't need to. I just need to hold onto her for a few more moments."

"A few more…?"

But then Dr. Saunders glides into the office, one of those big scary needles that glints in the light in one hand, her expression as imperturbable as ever, Ivy right behind her. Topher's spine straightens. "Thank you, Boyd," she says calmly. "I can take over now."

\--

Topher scratches distractedly at the Band-Aid Dr. Saunders just plastered over the cut on his forehead and tries not to think about how uncomfortable it made him when she touched him. He's got much more dire things to worry about, and he's not afraid to say so. "We've got to get her wiped before DeWitt finds out. Like, as soon as possible. Yesterday, hopefully. Or even better—before the dawn of time."

"We can't wipe her if she's unconscious," Ivy points out. "And I don't like the idea of strapping her down to the Chair. Especially because we're going to have to get the spare out of storage, and it isn't nearly as comfortable as this one. As this one was."

Boyd nods thoughtfully. "Topher, is there some way to communicate with her? Some way to imprint someone with the language?"

Topher tugs at the bottom of his sweater vest. "Creating a whole new profile would take too long. Do you have any idea how long it takes to produce the level of detail that I create when I specially design each scan? And I can't just dump language mastery skills into a doll-state Active's brain; this particular profile would have to have the reasoning and self-preservation skills to go along with the Tibetan capabilities and—"

Boyd cuts in, in that capable but firm way of his. "Topher."

He shrugs. "But I can see if we have an existing profile in the system that speaks Tibetan?"

\--

Victor stares through the glass of the office door—closed in an attempt to contain the fury of the Ewok Queen—into the imprinting room where Sierra is still playing with the remnants of the Chair. He isn't paying any attention at all to the other side of the office where Ivy and a few of the tech drones are hooking up the replacement Chair. "Why is Sierra angry at the Chair?" he asks.

"She's confused," Topher says. He's pretty surprised at how quickly she shook off the drugs. Maybe something to do with Ewok physiology that he wasn't even aware of? God, he's good. "Sick. She's really, really sick. In the head. And…maybe other places. Would you like to help her?"

No hesitation. "Yes. How can I help her?"

Topher guides him over to where Ivy is connecting the last of the wires on the Chair. For once, the answer is so, so simple. "By getting a treatment."

Victor nods firmly. "I always enjoy my treatments. I like to be my best."

\--

"Oh, how quaint."

Topher is kind of in awe of the way in which smugness _drips_ out of the Victor-imprint's voice. They didn't have time to let him change into an outfit more appropriate for the imprint, but still, Victor's somehow managed to stand as though his thumbs are hooked under non-existent suspenders. And once again, Topher boggles at his own attention to detail.

Because the Victor-imprint is staring through the glass door into the imprinting room just as he was before his treatment, only this time it isn't with a doll-state Active's childlike earnestness. Instead, he's got an analytical and speculative gleam in his eye as Zaza drapes a few of the wires from the Chair around her neck like a necklace.

Topher glances at the screen to make sure he's got the name correct before addressing him. "Uh, Mr. Hyde-Lewis?"

"_Sir_ Hyde-Lewis, my lad. Sir Percival Hyde-Lewis, to be exact. Created a knight by the queen herself, her majesty Queen Victoria, long may she reign."  
"Right. Sir. So that girl in there. I need to communicate with her, but I don't speak her language. It's a dialect of Tibetan. You do speak Tibetan, right?"

"Of course, of course." Sir Percival sounds both jovial and slightly threatening at once.

Topher hurries on. "So, can you help a brother out? Try talking with her? Calming her down?"

"I shall do my best. She is…quite primitive, is she not?"

Topher rolls his eyes and chuckles a bit. "That's one way of putting it. Look—"

"On the other hand, she's also rather fetching."

Well, that's kind of strange. "Sure. But I need you to calm her down, all right? We need to get her to agree to come and sit in that Chair that you just got out of. It's important. Vital. In a save-my-skin sort of way, understand?"

"Of course, of course. Never fear, old chap. I have a way with these…people."

Topher's hardly reassured, but he opens the door and vehemently gestures Sir Percival through it. The famous explorer—and founding member of the National Geographic Society—taps his chin thoughtfully, then turns back to Topher. "Will you allow me a moment?"

"Sure, sure. Knock yourself out. Only not literally, please. You're kind of all we've got at this point."

\--

Twenty minutes later, Sir Percival still hasn't emerged. So Topher jerks open the door and peers in.

The explorer is crouched on the floor in front of a warbling but much calmer Zaza, scribbling furiously onto a pad of paper—which, where did he get that, anyways?

"Hey! Sir Percy whatever! You with the monocle—or, you should have one, anyways. And be dressed in khaki shorts, maybe. Can I talk to you for a sec?"

Sir Percival looks up as though just waking from a dream, and it takes a moment for his eyes to clear again. "Oh, of course, lad." He shoves the pad and pen into his pocket—only he doesn't have a pocket, so it slides down his leg and he has to bend to pick it up before hurrying over to Topher.

Topher closes the door behind him. "Well? Any luck? Success? Victory? Any progress whatsoever?"

Sir Percival is practically beaming, but there's something slightly sinister about his smile. "This is…well, it's a revelation, by Jove! She speaks a dialect never before discovered! Where does she come from, lad? Somewhere remote and untamed in Asia, no doubt. She wishes to go back to her people, savages though they may be, and I shall accompany her. Surrounded by her tribe, I can perform an extensive study of the language and culture—write a book, become the foremost scholar in this particular field! No other white man has ever encountered her people, I am certain."

Topher thinks of the end of _Jedi_: fireworks and Ewoks singing and dancing and the Rebels celebrating and the ghosts of Anakin, Obi-Wan, and Yoda looking on benevolently. "I wouldn't be so sure."

"Oh, but I am. If they had, I would know of it. No, no. The language is, as you've noticed—you did request my assistance, after all—similar to Tibetan, but her culture is truly unique. The most unspoiled anthropological discovery since Richard Archbold discovered the Dani of New Guinea! She calls herself Zaza, Queen of the—and there is no translation for this—Ee-woks."

"I _know_ what she calls herself. I was the one who—"

"And the tribal mythology! So unique! So delightfully primitive! She believes she is in the abode of some sort of mythical creatures—gods, perhaps. The closest translation I can reach is, 'rain army.'"

Rain army. Rain army.

_Stormtroopers._

Of course.

Suddenly Topher has the solution. "No _wonder_ she's destroying everything," he says, with awed realization. "Listen, I need you to tell her we're not the, uh, Rain Army. Tell her we're the Rebel Alliance."

The look Sir Percival gives him is so skeptical that Topher thinks a new word should be invented to describe it. "That hardly seems respectable, does it? Rebels. Rebellion. Sounds like something the French would do. What next: revolution?"

"No, no, no." He pushes Sir Percival towards the door. "She thinks the Rebel Alliance is good. She'll listen. I promise."

"Well, I don't know, old chap—"

Topher glances again into the imprinting room; Zaza is back up on what's left of the Chair again, and she looks like she's about to go into destructo-mode any second. "Tell her that sitting in the Chair will help defeat the rain army. Just tell her, all right?" He makes a shoo-ing gesture. "Go. The primitive's a-waitin' and my equipment can't take much more of her Hulk-smashing."

Sir Percival's tone makes it clear that he's still unconvinced. "Rebel Alliance. Those are highly developed concepts. I'm not sure how I would communicate them in such a primitive dialect…"

Might as well use the emotional blackmail to his own advantage, right? "Are you saying you can't do it?"

It's kind of amazing, the way Sir Percival manages to puff up with pride and look deeply offended all at once. "Well, _of course_ I can."

"Great. Fantastic. So get in there and _do_.

Topher throws the door open, but Sir Percival pauses before he goes through it. "I will relay your message, lad, but only on one condition. That I am allowed to study her further—and in her natural habitat—as soon as she is done assisting you in whatever damned experimentation you are performing."

"Yeah. Of course. After your treatment."

"Yes. After my treatment."

"Great. Thank you, Allan Quatermain."

"My name is—"

"I know, I _know_. Just _tell her_."

\--

Five minutes later, Zaza comes trundling back into the office, Sir Percival right behind her.

"She has agreed to your request," Sir Percival says magnanimously. "She indicates that she is proud to follow in Kettch's footsteps. A most curious phrase, I must admit."

Kettch? Oh. Ooooh. "Yeah, we're gonna fit her out to pilot an X-wing. She'll be in Wraith Squadron. Be best friends with Wes Janson. Whatever. Can you just get her to sit in the Chair?"

Sir Percival extends a chivalrous hand and Zaza takes it with a gracious noise. Then she turns to Topher, waves her yardstick spear and says, "Yub, yub!"

"Yub, yub, Zaza," Topher murmurs, letting out a sigh of relief as he watches her settle into the Chair—_finally_—before he turns to the computer. "Yub freakin' yub."

\--

DeWitt's got her lips pursed more than when she's merely Not Amused but less than when she's Incandescent with Rage. So she's Severely Ticked Off, then. Well, it could be worse.

"…was irresponsible, self-indulgent, immature, and resulted in a nearly catastrophic loss of equipment and money to the company. Not to mention injury to one of our Handlers. In short, your behavior has been unacceptable."

"Yes, ma'am," he says dutifully, watching her pour a tumbler of scotch. The whole manners thing has never really been his style, but when the situation demands it….Well, he does wear sweater vests, after all.

"Under no circumstances are you to ever design another profile unless specifically instructed to do so for the purpose of an engagement."

He watches her take a hearty swig of the scotch, fascinated her ability not to wince. Give him beer any day; anything much heavier than that makes him cringe. "Yes, ma'am," he echoes again.

"If I discover that you have been designing any such profiles for your own amusement or for any purpose other than that of an engagement for an Active, I will have you terminated." And then she does that little eyebrow lift—forty-five degree angle—that lets him know that terminated doesn't mean fired. "Actions have consequences, Mr. Brink. I'd hate to see yours bite you in the ass so royally in the future." Another cool sip of scotch. "Should you have a future here."

Terminated. Attic. Or dead, maybe. Anyways, it's all the same: his life as he knows it would be over. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Now, I expect you to have created a new Chair by the end of the week while ensuring that all of our Actives make their appointments on schedule."

Well, that really wasn't so bad. Threats, but no follow-through. He can deal with that. "Yes, ma'am," he says, starting towards the elevator. He pauses after he presses the button, turns to face her. "You know, there are a few modifications I've been wanting to make to the Chair. Got a few designs I've been working on that are gonna blow your mind, not that you're type to have your mind blown," he continues with an awkward laugh. "The modifications would make our already way-faster-than-any-other-house's jump into warp speed – plus more efficient."

She starts to look slightly interested, in that detached, British sort of way. "We do value efficiency here, Mr. Brink."

He laughs again. "That's me, always thinking about the more efficient parts of life. But it's gonna cost a pretty penny and when I say penny I mean hundreds of millions of pennies…" He trails off suggestively.

DeWitt rolls her eyes and knocks back the rest of the scotch, but the pursing of her lips show that she's Trying Not to Show Amusement. "Whatever you need, Topher. As long as everything runs as smoothly and efficiently as possible."

"For. The. Win." He can't stop the big grin from spreading across his face as he steps into the elevator. _Epic Battle of the Geniuses: Topher: 1, Diego: nada. Take that, Lex Luthor._


End file.
